Singing After The Storm
by GMTH
Summary: An awkward situation leads Gideon to a confession. A terrifying situation leads Reid to a realization. Gideon/Reid slash. Warnings: Mentions of off-screen violence against women. OC death by gunshot. No spoilers.


_"Birds sing after a storm. Why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?" - Rose Kennedy_

The go bag feels much heavier on Spencer's shoulder than it usually does. Far too heavy. Like he's carrying a Volkswagen on his back instead of a few changes of clothing and assorted toiletries. He plods along with his head down, eyes blinking sluggishly as the heels of the person in front of him – Morgan, he thinks – drift in and out of focus. Up ahead on the tarmac he can hear the high-pitched hum of the jet's engines idling in the cool morning air, and the sound gives him the energy to lift his head. The door to the jet is open, its stairway deployed, and the light inside is beckoning. There's a couch on the other side of that doorway. It's too short for Spencer to stretch out on fully and the scratchy material irritates his skin, but it's there, waiting for him. He'll find the energy to climb the stairs somehow, if it means a chance to collapse on that short, uncomfortable couch. By the time they're in the air, flying into the rising light of the pre-dawn, he'll be blissfully asleep.

God, he needs it. He's been awake for thirty-eight hours straight, and his entire body is shutting down. Only one part of his brain is still awake, and that part is too busy cataloging the symptoms of acute sleep deprivation to help with useful tasks like helping him walk or continue to stand upright. _Aching muscles: check. Adverse effects on cognitive function: check. Yawning: check. Headache: check. If the condition becomes chronic, depression, irritability, and increases in blood pressure and stress hormone levels will come next, followed by delusions and hallucinations, possibly psychosis..._

The ring of a cell phone interrupts this internal litany. Hotch juggles his bags into one hand and roots around in his pocket with the other. "Hotchner," he says. "What's up, Garcia?"

Spencer glances blearily in Hotch's direction with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The case is closed, there's no reason for Garcia to be calling now unless –

Hotch stops short, and the team stops short around him. All except Spencer, whose reflexes are so dulled by fatigue he ends up walking straight into the person in front of him. Not Morgan after all, as it turns out.

"Easy, Reid," Gideon says gently, grabbing Spencer's arm to steady him as he stumbles back a few steps. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Spencer replies. "'M fine. Just... tired."

"Okay, Garcia," Hotch says. "Yeah. Okay, I got it. Thanks." He snaps the phone shut with a frown and slips it back into his breast pocket. "The Weather Service is now saying the storm is going to hit Quantico after all. In fact, snow has already begun to fall, and it's expected to continue for at least the next twenty-four hours. We're grounded, folks."

Morgan and Elle groan in unison. "Now that's just great," Morgan says.

"Woo hoo," Elle adds with a sigh. "An unplanned vacation in glorious Nowheresville, Oklahoma. What more could we ask for?"

Neither Gideon nor Spencer say anything, but the thought of trudging back to the cars and then driving all the way back to the small, crowded hotel makes Spencer sway a bit on his feet. They stand together in silence for a few moments while Hotch ducks into the jet to speak with the crew, then turn around and start the trek back to where the local PD's Suburbans are still waiting. Spencer's on auto-pilot now, shuffling one foot in front of the other, barely able to pick his feet up off the ground.

"Here," a quiet voice says, and the pressure of the bag is eased off his shoulder. "Let me take this stuff." Spencer relinquishes his messenger bag as well, giving Gideon what's supposed to be a grateful smile but ends up being barely more than a sleepy twitch of his upper lip. Gideon claps him gently on the back and, leaving his hand in place, steers Spencer in the right direction. He can hear Hotch talking on his cell phone, letting Haley know he won't be home, then some banter between Morgan, Gideon, and the local sheriff that he hears without understanding. Then somehow he's sitting in the back seat of the car, eyes closed and hair pillowing the side of his head against the window as someone clicks his seat belt in place.

"Thanks," he murmurs, and that's the last thing he remembers for now.

* * *

><p>The first thing Spencer sees when he cracks his eyes open again is his gun sitting on the bedside table. He lifts his head and blinks away the blurriness until he can see the display on the clock behind the holster. 4:38 PM. He's been asleep nearly nine hours.<p>

He rolls over onto his back. The room is still and silent except for the whisper of warm air pouring from the heater. The shade is drawn, but bars of weak sunlight filter in through the slats to stripe the blanket around his feet nonetheless. His bags are piled in a heap by the door, along with another set he recognizes as Gideon's. The other bed is still neatly made, untouched, its unattractive paisley bedspread a match to the one on Spencer's bed. Gideon's jacket is draped over the back of an armchair at its foot.

Spencer closes his eyes again, flirting with the idea of going back to sleep, but his bladder has other ideas. When he swings his legs over the side of the bed, he realizes he's still fully dressed except for his holster and shoes. Someone either led him or carried him into this room from the car, he's not sure which. The idea of one of his teammates carrying him like a child makes Spencer cringe. He hopes it wasn't Morgan. He'll never hear the end of it if it was.

The light in the bathroom is overly bright and makes Spencer look even paler than usual when he peers at himself in the mirror. His cheeks are wrinkled with pillow case marks. He takes a piss and washes his hands, then cups them under the faucet to gather some water to splash across his face. It feels so good he decides to strip, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor while he stands with his face upturned to the warm spray of water streaming from the showerhead. The fuzziness in his head is dissipating now, his thinking becoming sharper again, more focused. By the time he rinses the last of the shampoo from his hair, he knows how to checkmate Gideon in four moves when they finally get back to Quantico and the board in his office.

He pads back into the main room wearing one towel knotted around his hips and scrubbing at his hair with another. His cell phone rings as he shucks the towel off and sits on the edge of the bed, its ring tone barely audible; it's at the bottom of the pile of dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. He ignores it. Whoever it is will probably think he's still asleep, and he's got something more important to attend to just now.

The little bottle of hand lotion the hotel has provided makes his nose twitch as the scent of vanilla wafts into his face. Spencer settles back on the bed and closes his eyes, one lotion-slick hand gently squeezing the length of his cock until it's thick and hot against his palm. It's always like this after a case. It used to bewilder him; still does sometimes, especially after a particularly ugly case like the one they just finished. He fought the urge the first few times it happened, horrified at the idea of getting off while somewhere, victims were dead and their families grieving. But he's come to realize it's necessary, an important piece of his own healing and the best way to clear his head of at least some of the images he doesn't want to remember.

"Restoration of psychological homeostasis," he whispers to himself, kicking the blankets aside. It's a great topic for a journal article, he decides, making a mental note to give it some thought later on before filing the idea away.

The squeeze becomes a tight-fisted stroke, slowly at first, up and over the head of his cock and then down again, drawing waves of sensation that radiate out from his groin through his whole body like a pebble thrown into a pond. He keeps the pace slow as long as he can stand it, letting the pressure build, muscles tensing in ways that promise relaxation rather than strain when he's done. A twist of his wrist and he reaches the next level, his mouth dropping open so he can gulp down enough air. Faster now. Harder. Short, quick strokes. Again. Again. Again. His breath hisses in and out between his teeth. It's not going to take much longer. He tilts his hips, thrusting up into his own grip, back arching, ass clenching. Almost there, almost... Ohhhh, my em _god._

The sudden rattling of the door handle sends a spike of terror through Spencer's heart. He freezes, eyes cutting toward the door and growing wide with panic as the handle starts to turn. In a frenzy of adrenaline and mortification, he manages to grab the blankets and whip them back over his body, rolling over onto his stomach and pressing his face into the pillow so his back is to the door as it cracks open. His erection is pinned against the mattress at an awkwardly painful angle, but it's not going to matter much longer.

The door swooshes across the carpet and then clicks shut. Spencer screws his eyes closed and tries to will his breathing back to normal, praying Gideon will think he's still asleep, but knowing that's about as likely as Gideon thinking he's just arrived from the moon. The man would have to be an idiot not to put the clues together: the bathroom light is on, Spencer's clothes are strewn across the floor, his hair is wet, there's an open bottle of hand lotion on the bedside table, and he's gasping for air like he's just run back-to-back marathons.

Gideon isn't an idiot.

The bathroom door closes and Spencer swallows against the dryness in his mouth. His face is hot enough to set the pillowcase on fire. _Damn it._This kind of thing could only happen to him. If he were Morgan, he'd have just laughed it off when Gideon walked in. Maybe he wouldn't even have stopped. If he were Hotch, well... but no, Hotch doesn't masturbate, Spencer is sure of that. He might wrinkle his suit.

But he's not Morgan. He's not Hotch. He's Spencer Reid. And he has no idea what he's supposed to do now.

The toilet flushes and Spencer can hear water splashing in the sink as Gideon washes his hands. His balls are starting to ache. Gideon flips off the bathroom light as he re-enters the main room. He clears his throat and Spencer tries not to flinch.

"Reid," Gideon says quietly, and Spencer holds his breath. It's another mistake, he realizes almost immediately; if he had actually been asleep, the sound of Gideon's voice would have jolted him awake. "We're meeting for dinner in the hotel restaurant in fifteen minutes, if you'd like to join us."

He leaves without waiting for a reply.

* * *

><p>When he's sure Gideon is gone, Spencer leaps out of bed and hastily pulls on a clean set of clothes, then makes the bed up so neatly it's impossible to imagine anything untoward could possibly have happened in it. Ever. He means to join the rest of the team for dinner, if for no other reason than getting back on the horse, but he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror again when he goes in to scoop up his clothes and realizes he'll never get through the meal without being asked at least one question he doesn't want to answer. Gideon won't say anything, of course, but Morgan, Hotch, and Elle will be under no such no such constraint. That's the problem with hanging out with profilers all the time: you can't get away with a thing.<p>

So instead, he steps outside the hotel doors and stands shivering in the twilight to watch the sun go down, then putters around in the gift shop for a while, killing time by reading every paperback in the place. By then the complaints of his stomach are too loud to ignore, and he reluctantly places the latest Danielle Steele book back in the rack. They must be finished eating by now.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the relative darkness of the hotel lounge after walking across the brightly lit lobby. The room is buzzing with the sound of a dozen different conversations, punctuated by the tinkling of ice against cut-glass tumblers and the occasional burst of laughter. At the front of the room, a young blonde sits in the glare of a spotlight, playing a piano and singing a song about her broken heart. A cursory glance around the room reveals no familiar faces, and Spencer allows himself an inward sigh of relief. Maybe everything will be okay after all.

"Can I see a menu, please?" he asks the bartender, and she hands one over with a friendly smile. He studies it, orders a burger and some battered-dipped onion rings, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder to let her know where she can find him when the food is ready. There are a few empty seats in the middle of the room, big comfortable-looking armchairs with a small round table set between them bearing a flickering oil lamp. He feels kind of conspicuous as he settles back into one of the chairs, the only person in the place who's there alone, yet at the same time takes comfort in the fact that no one is paying him any attention. Here, he can be totally anonymous.

"Mind if I sit down?"

Spencer's head snaps up, and the pleasant illusion is shattered. Gideon is there, standing beside him, gesturing toward the empty chair with the glass he holds in one hand. He's smiling, an affable smile with no sign of censure or distaste. Spencer smiles back, hesitantly, and Gideon takes a seat. He sits back with a sigh, eyes on the pianist, propping his ankle on the opposite knee.

"She's good," he says after a few minutes, nodding toward the piano. Spencer is spared the need to answer by the arrival of his dinner. They sit together in silence as he eats, toes pointed at an awkward angle to keep the platter balanced on his lap, leaning over as far as he can so the grease doesn't drip on his shirt. Gideon's foot is moving in time with the music, and he looks so relaxed, so utterly tranquil, that some of Spencer's discomfort starts to ease.

He licks the crumbs from his fingers and dries them with a grease-stained napkin. "Listen," he blurts, surprising them both. "I – I'm sorry."

Gideon cocks his head, his expression as blandly neutral as Spencer has ever seen it. "For what?" he says.

"For... you know. Earlier."

Gideon smiles, waving Spencer's words away. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"Yeah, I really think I do."

"Reid." Gideon's tone is firm, but kind. "You don't. I promise, you didn't offend me. You didn't upset me. I'm not angry. I'm not disgusted. I'm not even surprised."

Spencer swallows uncomfortably. "You're not?" he says. Has he been broadcasting it somehow? Saying or doing something that screams _I masturbate to relax!_to anyone who knows what to look for?

"No," Gideon replies, taking a sip of his drink. "You aren't the first, and you certainly won't be the last. Believe me, my friend, there's nothing new under the sun."

"Ecclesiastes, Chapter 1, Verse 9." The citation is out of Spencer's mouth before he can stop himself. He smiles sheepishly and shakes his head.

"What?" Gideon asks, and Spencer shakes his head again.

"It was, uh, not exactly what you'd call a biblically-inspired activity," Spencer says. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Gideon says, raising his voice so Spencer can hear him over the smattering of applause that greets the end of the blonde's song. "I can't imagine God really minds all that much."

Spencer's mind starts to whir, sifting through all the information he's gleaned over the years about attitudes toward masturbation in various religions and cultures, sorting it by time period and assembling footnotes on the different standards societies have set for each gender. He sits up a bit straighter in his chair and takes a deep breath in anticipation of an interesting and lively discussion on Gideon's thesis, but Gideon cuts him off before he can begin.

"I can also tell you," Gideon says quietly, staring down at the glass he cradles in both hands, "that I don't really mind all that much, either."

Spencer closes his mouth with a snap. Gideon continues to study the glass, rolling it between his palms so the liquid within glitters in the light. A muscle in his cheek twitches, which Spencer knows happens only when Gideon is grinding his teeth. _He's nervous_, Spencer realizes with a start. He's never seen Gideon nervous before, not when it's just the two of them like this. It makes his mouth go dry.

"What are you trying to say?" Spencer manages, his voice barely audible above the opening bars of the singer's next song.

Gideon finally looks up, his face fixed in the same kindly expression he gives frightened witnesses before beginning to question them. "I'm saying you should feel free to make yourself... comfortable," he says with a half-shrug. "It's not going to be a problem for me. On the contrary."

"O-okay." Spencer's tongue feels like a chunk of wood layered over with sandpaper, and it takes him a couple of tries to get the word out of his mouth.

Gideon's eyes crinkle at the corner as he smiles. "You're surprised," he says matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, kind of," Spencer replies. "I mean, if I were putting together your profile, I would never have pegged you as a voyeur." It puts him at ease to state it in these work-related terms, makes something familiar out of something he's never encountered before. His heart is doing a weird kind of dance in his chest that's making him feel light-headed.

"Then you'd have missed something important." Gideon sips at his drink and puts the glass down on the table between them. "I'm a student of human behavior. All kinds of human behavior. You know that as well as anyone."

"I suppose," Spencer says. He swipes at his sweaty upper lip. "I guess I... I just never thought of you like that. You know. That way."

"I know."

Spencer ducks his head, toying with a corner of the crumpled napkin on his plate. "Have you thought about me that way?" He winces when he realizes how stupid the question must sound. Five minutes ago, it would never have occurred to him to wonder if Gideon found him even remotely attractive. Now, knowing the answer seems like the most important thing in the world. If Gideon laughs, Spencer isn't sure he can ever face the man again.

But Gideon doesn't laugh. He doesn't respond at all until Spencer looks up. Their eyes meet, and the expression on Gideon's face makes the room feel ten degrees warmer. He's looking at Spencer the way women look at Morgan.

"I am... very fond of you," Gideon says. It's not exactly the answer Spencer was looking for, but he knows Gideon well enough to be able to read between the lines, and it will do.

He flashes Gideon a timid smile. "Thanks," he says, because he isn't sure what else there is to say in a situation like this. He's never been in a situation like this before.

"Give it some thought," Gideon says. "I won't bring it up again. You do whatever makes you comfortable."

Spencer nods. "Yeah, okay. Uh, thanks."

Gideon's hand is warm on Spencer's shoulder where he clasps it before walking away.

A waitress comes by to collect the dirty dishes. Spencer asks for a ginger ale – no alcohol tonight; he's feeling dazed enough already – and he nurses it for the rest of the night, sitting alone with his thoughts. Gideon is his mentor, his colleague. His friend. He can't go so far as to say Gideon has been like his father, since Gideon has always been there for him and his father has not, but he's certainly the most important male figure in Spencer's life. The idea of taking his relationship with Gideon to the next level is completely foreign to him, maybe even ridiculous, not to mention the problems it might create for both of them with the Bureau. It's really not even worth thinking about.

Still, he'd be lying to himself if he denied the fluttery feeling in his stomach Gideon's words have produced. He wipes his moist palms on his thighs.

His sleep has so refreshed him that he's still wide awake when the bartender announces last call. When the lights come up, he's one of only a handful of people still left in the bar.

Gideon is already asleep by the time Spencer gets back to their room.

* * *

><p>The next morning starts early, with an urgent rapping at their door. Gideon is out of bed and stalking across the room before Spencer is even fully awake. He squints through the peephole, then unlocks the door and pulls it open. "Morning," he says, his voice still rough with sleep.<p>

"Sorry to wake you so early, Jason," Hotch replies, stepping inside. He's already fully dressed, every pleat sharpened, tie impeccably knotted under his chin. "We're heading out. Wheels up in forty-five."

"Back to Quantico?" Gideon asks. "Did the storm break?"

Hotch shakes his head. "No. We've got a case in Colorado. JJ called this morning with the details." He hands Gideon a stack of grainy, fax paper-quality crime scene photos. "Serial rapist," he says. "With a preference for local VIPs. Five victims: a city councilwoman, the owner of a popular downtown boutique, a retired judge, a bank manager, and last night, the mayor's wife. All of the victims were badly beaten afterwards. One dead so far, and the mayor's wife is in critical condition. They're not sure she's going to make it."

"All high profile victims," Gideon grunts, shuffling through the photos. "Someone wants some attention."

"Or revenge," Spencer chimes in.

"Too early to tell," Hotch says. "But needless to say, there's a lot of interest in the case and a lot of high-level pressure to get it solved."

"Right." Gideon straightens the pile of paper and hands it back to Hotch. "We'll be ready."

They dress quickly, without speaking, Gideon in the bathroom and Spencer in the main room, then shove the rest of their belongings into their respective bags. The silence isn't an uncomfortable one, no more so than a hundred previous silences they've shared, but this one feels different. Like they've been interrupted in the middle of something important, forced to put something off that will eventually need to be dealt with. It makes Spencer uneasy in ways he can't define.

For his part, Gideon seems the same as he always does in the earliest stage of a case. His mouth is set in the hard line that means he's deep in thought, weighing the initial pieces of information, sketching the first broad strokes of a picture the team will fill out in more detail as the investigation unfolds. He doesn't even look up at Spencer until his jacket is zipped and his bags hoisted off the bed. "Ready?" he says, and when Spencer nods, he smiles briefly and heads for the door.

* * *

><p>They spend the next six days in the Colorado Rockies. Six cold, blustery days spent working outdoors in clothing they'd originally packed for the milder weather in Oklahoma. The crime scene investigations are frigid affairs, discussions conducted through billowing clouds of steam from the cups of hot coffee they use to warm their stiffened fingers and with much stomping of frozen feet. They interview the surviving victims, talk to the ME, pore over maps and evidence bags, toss ideas back and forth for hours. They spend their nights in a hotel large enough that this time they don't have to double up, and not one word unrelated to the case passes between Gideon and Spencer all week.<p>

The unsub attacks two more women before they can complete the profile. Neither survives.

On the evening of the fifth day, they present the profile to a roomful of tired, overworked cops clutching notepads and styrofoam cups of stale coffee. The mayor stands off to one side, his swollen eyes red-rimmed with grief and his mouth twisted in anger and determination.

"The unknown subject we're looking for is a white male in his mid- to late thirties or early forties," Gideon says. "He's highly intelligent, but not as well educated as he'd like to be. He aspires to be more than he is, and feels frustrated and cheated that he hasn't been able to achieve his life's goals because he didn't, or couldn't, go as far in his education as he wanted to."

"He's intensely jealous of people who are more educated than himself," Hotch continues. "Or those who have achieved more success than he has, especially if they have talked about it openly in newspaper or television interviews, or if they have achieved success in highly public venues such as politics or business."

"This bitterness is especially pronounced when it comes to successful women," Elle adds. "He feels belittled by powerful women, and may even believe women try to get an unfair advantage in life by using sex to get what they want. He sees this as a terrible injustice, and feels it's his responsibility to right the wrong and put women in their place."

"He also tries to impress everyone he meets with his intelligence," Spencer says. He can feel Morgan's eyes on him, and knows that statement would get him mocked immediately if they were in a less formal situation. "He wants to be acknowledged as a significant intellect, and may communicate using lots of overly complicated words or esoteric concepts, or by quoting at length from great scholars."

A cop in the back of the room raises her hand. "You know," she says, shaking her head, "that sounds an awful lot like Jonathan Greer."

"He's an instructor at the local community college," Garcia informs them a few minutes later. "He applied for a research grant and was rejected two months ago because the committee felt, and I quote, he was 'nowhere near qualified to conduct the research adequately, let alone to the high standards we would expect and require.' Ouch. That _had_ to hurt."

"There's our stressor," Morgan says grimly. "What else can you tell us, Garcia?"

The sound of Garcia's keyboard clatters through the speakerphone. "The grant was eventually awarded to a Dr. Veronica Marsh at Columbia University."

The team exchanges looks. "I'm uploading his picture and an address to you now," Garcia says.

"Thanks, baby girl. Let's go." Morgan punches the speakerphone button, and they surge through the police station's doors into the cold evening air.

* * *

><p>"Jonathan Greer! FBI!"<p>

Morgan's breath erupts in a cloud as he levels his weapon at a briefcase-wielding figure in the middle of an empty parking lot. The man freezes, and the team cautiously moves in on him, leaving a trail of fresh footprints behind them in the thin coating of newly-fallen snow. "Drop the briefcase!" Morgan barks; a moment later, it's at Greer's feet. "Let me see your hands!"

Greer's hands shake as he slowly raises them to waist level, then stops. "Let me see 'em!" Morgan says again, more urgently this time, but Greer doesn't move. Spencer's heart starts to pound as the entire team tenses up around him. The cold air suddenly feels electric on his skin.

"Turn around and get down on your knees!" Morgan shouts. Greer starts to comply, pivoting slowly on his heel. His hands are a blur of movement, and a heartbeat later there's a flash of light and a deafening roar of thunder. As one, each member of the team answers the shot with one of their own.

Greer's chest blossoms into a shower of red. He's dead before he hits the ground.

* * *

><p>"Got it!" A burly cop draws a circle on a telephone pole near near the edge of the parking lot with a pink neon marker. "Right there," he says to Gideon, shining a flashlight into the small hole. "Sucker's halfway through the thing, looks like."<p>

"That was a hell of a shot," another cop says, bending to squint at the hole in the pulsing blue and red lights of half a dozen police and emergency vehicles. Behind them, Greer's body still lies on the snowy ground, now covered with a blood-stained white sheet. The second cop whistles appreciatively as he straightens up. "He drilled it almost dead center."

Spencer's brow furrows as he examines the position of the pole and the height of the bullet hole. He turns to estimate the angle of the pole relative to the cluster of footprints that mark the spot where the team stood, then looks back at the pole, his mind whirring. Beside him, Hotch seems to sense his mood. "What is it?" Hotch asks.

Spencer's stomach clenches as the final calculations click into place. "That bullet," he says. "It missed Gideon's head by about two inches."

"Are you sure?" Hotch says.

"You were was standing right there, right?" Spencer points to the set of footprints where Gideon had been positioned. Gideon nods, his expression grim. "Then, yeah," Spencer replies, lowering his arm. "I'm sure."

Hotch's jaw is rigid with concern as he glances up at Gideon. Gideon says nothing. For a long moment, he and Spencer stand looking at one another without speaking, without moving. A squawk of chatter from one of the radios breaks the spell, and Gideon turns away abruptly, tugging at the velcro straps that keep his vest in place. He yanks it off over his head and climbs into the back seat of the Bureau SUV, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

><p>On the flight home, Gideon sits at the front of the jet with his head back and his eyes closed, feigning sleep. He isn't fooling anybody, but the team respects his wish for solitude as best they can, huddling together in silence in the last few rows of seats.<p>

Spencer looks out the window, watching the earth slip by far below without really seeing a thing. He can't swallow past the lump in his throat. He doesn't speak to, or even look at, Gideon, but he couldn't be more acutely aware of Gideon's presence if he were sitting in the man's lap.

* * *

><p>The snow is piled in chest-high mounds along the edges of the airstrip. "Great work on these last two cases, everyone," Hotch says as the jet rolls to a stop. "We've been gone for more than two weeks straight, and we all need a break. I don't want to see any of you in the office until Monday morning, understood?"<p>

"Yes, _sir_," Morgan drawls, standing up and stretching like a cat. He's grinning from ear to ear, making Spencer wonder just how many women will see the inside of Morgan's bedroom in the next four days.

"What's Strauss going to say about that?" Gideon asks with a frown as he makes his way up the middle aisle, bags slung over one shoulder.

Hotch shrugs into his overcoat. "I'll handle Strauss. You just go get some sleep."

Gideon gives him a curt nod. "You, too," he says quietly. "See you Monday."

* * *

><p>Spencer's mailbox is stuffed to overflowing when he gets back to his apartment. Most of it is bills and junk mail – the International Schizophrenia Foundation is looking for another contribution, which he could easily afford if he accepted any one of the half-dozen credit card offers for which he's been pre-approved – but there is also a thick envelope addressed in his mother's spiky handwriting. He sets this letter aside for later and tosses the rest carelessly into the inbox on his desk to be dealt with (or shredded) when he gets the time. The message light on his phone is blinking, and he hits the voicemail button. The dentist's office called to remind him of an appointment he missed three days ago, and the book he requested through interlibrary loan has arrived and he can pick it up whenever he's ready.<p>

Life went on while he was gone, the way it always has. And life will continue to go on just as before now that he's returned. Everything is completely normal.

So why does everything feel so _different_?

He turns the question over in his mind as he up-ends his go bag over the hamper, showers, and changes into clean clothes. His stomach rumbles, and his toes curl against the cold kitchen tile as he peers into the refrigerator. Nothing but some wilted celery, a jar of pickles, and something wrapped in aluminum foil that has been sitting in there long enough to resemble a high school science project. Even the milk makes him wince when he sniffs it. Coffee might have been an acceptable substitute for dinner, but not with this stuff.

Thirty minutes later, he's seated next to the plate glass window of his favorite pizza joint, wiping the grease from his lips with a coarse paper napkin. The slice doesn't taste as good as usual, feels like rubber cement in his mouth, in fact, and it takes several gulps of soda to wash it down. Maybe he should have just gone to bed when he got home. The sense of uneasiness has been growing stronger since he left the apartment and his head is pounding from the tension, though he's still unsure what's got him so shook up. It's like that episode of _Star Trek_ when the Enterprise was put through a molecular transporter and reassembled slightly out of phase, he muses. Scotty knew something was wrong, but couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a flash of light. He starts, his hand reflexively squeezing around the paper cup until ice cubes clatter onto the table. The engine of a car parked just outside the window revs to life, its headlights shining directly in Spencer's eyes when he turns his head toward the sound. His heart is hammering, and for a split second he imagines he can feel the clammy sweat trickling down his back beneath his vest, the way it did when Greer made his last stand.

If Gideon had been standing just a few more inches to the left, he'd be dead.

If Greer had had another split second to aim, just one more instant, there would have been two bodies on the ground in Colorado instead of one. Gideon would be dead, and Spencer would have lost more than a mentor, a colleague. A friend.

He would have lost the one person in the world who has ever truly understood him. Maybe the one person in the world who has ever truly been able to care about him.

He nearly slips on a piece of ice as he lurches to his feet. He stuffs the remaining half slice and empty soda cup in the garbage can on his way out the door.

* * *

><p>His knuckles are white on the steering wheel as he stops at yet another traffic light. It's rush hour, and the traffic is impossible. He barely manages to suppress the urge to lay on the horn when the lights turn green. Every other driver on the road seems to be moving in slow motion, and it feels like he creeps only a few feet on every green light. Things would be so much easier if he had a siren on his car.<p>

Finally, Gideon's building looms into view. As luck would have it, someone is pulling away from a parking spot a block away from his destination, and Spencer maneuvers the car into the empty space. He fumbles with a quarter for the parking meter, drops it, and decides not to try again. Screw it. If he gets a ticket, professional courtesy will take care of it. He trots up the sidewalk, breaking into a run to get through the crosswalk before the light turns red again.

He pauses outside Gideon's door to catch his breath. The soft strains of a Brahms piano concerto filter out into the hallway. He's recovered enough to be breathing heavily through his nose by the time he knocks on the door.

"Reid." Gideon's voice is like a balm as the door swings wide. The throbbing in Spencer's head begins to ease immediately.

"Hi," he says with an awkward half-wave. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," Gideon replies, stepping back to make room for Spencer to slip past. "I'm glad you're here."

Spencer unzips his jacket. "I – I was worried about you," he says, tugging the jacket off and tossing it onto the couch. "I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"That's very nice of you." Gideon smiles gently as he closes the door and twists the lock. "Have you eaten? I was just finishing dinner."

"Yeah, I have," Spencer says. "Well, no, not really. I mean, I had a slice of pizza, but it wasn't very good."

"Let me fix you a plate, then. Pasta. I made the sauce myself." He turns toward the kitchen, but Spencer catches his arm.

"No, wait," he says, and Gideon pauses and turns back, a quizzical expression on his face. "I just – I just want..."

Bracing his hands on Gideon's shoulders, Spencer leans in to press their lips together. Gideon tenses for an instant so brief someone who didn't know him as well as Spencer does might have missed it, then steps in closer and wraps his arms around Spencer, pulling him flush against his chest, fingers lightly kneading into the muscles on Spencer's back. His lips are smooth and warm and taste like red wine. Spencer closes his eyes, curling his arms around Gideon's neck. Later, he will wonder why this first kiss with another man doesn't make him feel as strange and awkward as his first kiss with a woman did, but for right now all he feels is completely, utterly safe.

His legs are quivering by the time the kiss ends. He pulls back far enough to look Gideon in the eye. Gideon's breath feels humid on his face as they stare at one another, unblinking.

"So," he says in a hoarse whisper, "are you all right?"

"Yes," Gideon sighs, drawing Spencer into a hug so close he can feel the word vibrating through Gideon's chest. "I'm all right now."


End file.
